My Old Bedroom

My old bedroom, a rotten apple,
a museum for clouds, a long knife
made of torn cotton, an empty bus,
a Godless chapel.
My old bedroom, a door with no lock.
The window with a screen to keep out
monsters. A bed for nightmares.
A voice that cackles.
My old bedroom. Posters on the walls:
Wheels, cartoons, and words. On the floor, toys,
books, and pages of poems.
My soul in shackles.

Pieces of Me

Some were left behind like the ones smeared on
backs of teachers' heavy hands in autumn.
Some where lost like the ones in red petals
of those tulips risen among the rocks,
my childhood springs in the construction sites.
And between cars beneath mulberry trees
lining the back alleys, in the presence
of us all playing ball in late July.
In Panchatantra, and Jules Verne's fancies,
in goodnight kisses every single night….
But now I stand a  porous skin only
wrapped around absence that festers and spreads
a nameless disease that tears through the past.